My name's Alice, and don't get me wrong, I love my husband James more than anything in the world. He's given me two wonderful kids and a life that I could only have dreamed about, growing up as the daughter of a delivery driver in the outer suburbs. He's ripped too, six foot one, towering over me whenever we go out. I have to wear heels to be able to look him in the eye. He likes that. I like that too. Oh, and when he fucks you, you stay fucked, hence the two kids and the notion of me straying from his bed never having even occurred once in fifteen years of marriage.
I'm pretty sure he feels the same about me, and as far as I know he's never cheated. Not that he hasn't had the opportunity. He's smart, handsome, with grey eyes the colour of the sea on a rainy day. That sounds a little poetic, but it captures the way he makes me feel when he wraps his strong arms around me and I stare into those eyes. It's like looking at the sea. There's eternity in them. I can feel my body responding even now, just thinking about the way he looks at me.
But this isn't helping.
As I said, he's had plenty of opportunity over the years. He's played football at the top level and up until last year was out on the grass every few days for one of the big teams. You've heard of them, but let's leave it there. We need to keep some semblance of anonymity.
He isn't a big hulking man-mountain, though. No, he played on the outside: athletic, fast, and with a brain between the ears. Always looking for the chance, and able to adapt and change direction like lightning. He always played by his instincts, and they were unnervingly right.
He kept me on my toes. Or rather, the steady stream of attention kept me on my toes. We would go to balls or events and it would be uncommon if he hadn't been hit upon at least twice, often with his wife, wedding ring on full display, standing in her little black dress and killer stilettos, right next to him. But his response was always the same. He laughed and joked and made sure they had a good time talking to him, and then he took me home and gave me at least one good reason not to doubt him. Often two, and on the one occasion he was in the running for the annual Player of the Year medal, three times with a pre-match event between my knees in the cab home. The driver had quite happily circled our block a half dozen times until I had really, definitely, completely reached my destination.
I had never analysed it too much, but often some of our most thrilling sex was after such events. I supposed that maybe the attention of these other women stroked his ego and boosted his performance, but there was more to it than that. There was something reciprocal on my side, watching these women desire my husband. It gave me a strange little nervous, excited feeling in my tummy, like I was under siege, but then a delicious rush of arousal as I walked away with him, leaving them in our wake.
Which leads me to the day I did something dumb, something that in hindsight was obviously going to go off the rails. It started with a couch, and frustration.
James loved the couch. It was battered and comfortable and he wanted to keep it. Since the shoulder injury that had finally shuttered his professional playing days, he'd started to get sentimental about the most unlikely of things.
"Ally, I like it," he told me, "It feels good."
"But it's seen better days," I replied. I realised that I'd folded my arms over my breasts in a classic defensive posture. I was determined to get my way.
"Just because it's very best days are behind it doesn't mean that we need to throw it away," he said.
I shifted my folded arms slightly downwards, so I could gradually compress my breasts into a distracting cleavage. I was wearing baggy track pants and a loose t-shirt. Rookie mistake, but looking at his stern face I began to appreciate I would have had to go full lingerie to distract him from his current tack.
"Some things get better with age," I said, more gently now, "You love them and you know they'll always have a place in your home. When they get broken, you make sure they get mended, because you want to keep them forever."
I gave him a meaningful look.
"But an old couch is not one of them," I finished. "There's a sale on, and I found a really nice one. It's the softest leather and will go perfectly with everything else we have in here."
James reclined on the couch, hands behind his head, legs stretched out. His t-shirt rode up slightly, exposing a toned midriff. I'll be damned if he wasn't playing me at my own game.
"So," he said, "You have your eye on a newer model. All you need to do is get the old one out the door."
I brought out my phone and took a picture of my man on the couch.
He reacted with surprise. "What was that for?"
"I'm posting it on Highbridge Life," I replied, mentioning the local social page, "For the On Sale section. I've already put down the deposit for a new one and it's getting delivered on Wednesday."
James looked at me critically. He knew he had been outmanoeuvred but I could tell that in his private life, as when out on the field, he'd seen it coming and was angling for a new opening. He slid his t-shirt off and leaned forwards, wrapping his huge hands around the backs of my knees. I collapsed astride him.
"Then we should give the old veteran one last outing to remember," he said.
---
The truth of the matter was that ever since the shoulder injury, James had been out of sorts. Not exactly moping around the house. But he was drifting, rudderless. I had suggested coaching the local team or maybe the juniors but he seemed dead set against getting back into football. Maybe it was too painful.
I posted the picture of the couch on the Highbridge Life group under For Sale, with the caption, "Still has plenty of bounce. Would this look good in your home?" Of course, it had James in the picture, but I thought I was being smart. Who wouldn't use a bit of celebrity muscle to tart up a scruffy couch shot? And in a way, it worked beyond all expectations. I sold the couch within the hour. And then later, I sold my husband.
---
I could tell James wasn't happy as soon as we got out of the car.
"It'll be fine," I said, "You'll be great."
James scowled.
"Jodie sounded very nice on the phone," I prompted.
James shrugged, shoulders rippling in the t-shirt. I was dressed up to the nines, legs bare, and I'd picked a cocktail dress in aquamarine that stopped above my knees. My eyes are green and I'm a natural redhead, though while I've been described as fiery I'm really anything but. My day job is in media relations, so I know the importance of dressing to impress, and frankly after attending so many functions over the years with my husband I've learned that when facing a pretty blonde with endless legs and a neckline to her navel, the best defence is a good offence. I'd picked the dress because I was proud of my body, proud of the way it showed off my bottom, the way that people could admire my mostly flat stomach after pushing out two boys, and see clearly why James was with me and not some bimbo. I loved the way we would be in some interminable conversation at an event and his hand would casually drift down to settle on the top of my behind. It made me think of his sizeable manhood. It certainly passed the time.
"I feel a little under done," he said as we stood on the path in front of the venue, him in jeans and a t-shirt and myself fully made up, in cocktail dress and high heels.
"Come as you are, she said. And she asked for your measurements."
"How much did you sell me for?"
"A couple of hundred. And I didn't sell you, she bought your time," I corrected him. "You make it sound like I sold you into slavery."
I could see he was still uncertain.
"Look," I said, "If you don't want to do it, then we won't. Or if you do it and don't ever want to do it again, then we won't. How's that?"
Grumbling, he conceded. I took his hand and we went inside.
Jodie was setting up the tables and called out to us from across the room.
"Oh, lovely!" she exclaimed, looking me up and down, then switched her gaze to James, "And we'll get you sorted right now. Thank you so much for doing this."
